“It was very pleasant to savor its aroma, for smells have the power to evoke the past, bringing back sounds and even other smells that have no match in the present. -Tita, Like Water for Chocolate
If more of us valued food and cheer and song above hoarded gold, it would be a merrier world.” – J.R.R Tolkien
I learned to make pancakes as a Girl Scout and remember the smell of liver and onions simmering in my mother’s kitchen. It’s still a favorite, the scent of food prepared with love, a deep childhood memory. That my mother found time to prepare meals every day amazes me now. We never ate out and rarely had company. No take out Chinese or “save the day” pizza. My mother cooked every day. Only as an adult can I understand a little about how hard her life alone with four children must have been. How hard it must have been to make it happen in the kitchen… every day.
So what’s with this passion for food and fellowship. I’m still not quite sure but I guess it was her…in spite of the circumstances she prepared every meal with love. I’m sure I felt that. It was one of the many ways she showed love.
But I didn’t learn to cook at home. I’m a recipe girl through and through. I tweak to make things mine but I know how to follow a recipe. A clear recipe offers a guideline and serves as a foundation for safe exploration. My first cookbook was B. Smith’s Entertaining and Cooking for Friends, purchased in Costco for $15. This book was my food bible. Her recipes, scriptural revelation for the meals I’d prepare for my new husband. In the tiny kitchen of our first apartment I’d cook gourmet soul food by candlelight – thoroughly reading each instruction….chapter and verse. Listening to Sade and Nina Simone I’d lean into the poetry of a perfect dish.
Elijah obeyed GOD ’s orders. He went and camped in the Kerith canyon on the other side of the Jordan. And sure enough, ravens brought him his meals, both breakfast and supper, and he drank from the brook. – 1 Kings 17:5-6
Faith makes us sure of what we hope for and gives us proof of what we cannot see. – Hebrews 11 : 1
“Laity Lodge“…my 12-year-old daughter says I just like to say the name. She’s right. The name rolls off my lips like a lullaby from a soul known language. Laity Lodge called my name in tongues of fire. I heard. I answered.
It’s a special place. Sitting in a canyon felt like the right place for my city girl soul to unload a little of the drama of my daily life. I could unpack the questions, the disappointments, the longing. And the earth was ripe and ready. Yielding to my request for a little loving time…the canyon held me.
The land is prayer soaked. Every step taken releases a whispered prayer, voices of saints who covered the ground in tears for the people who would come. I needed Laity lodge and Laity Lodge was ready for me.
I can’t say how I got there. The months leading up to the trip were crazy and on several occasions I thought about canceling. The recent slew of deaths of unarmed black men by police officers or officials left me emotionally spent. My trip to Ferguson in August was like a branding iron on an old scar. My families personal connection to the unanswered questions surrounding tragedy like this opened up a Pandora’s box of emotions I had no name for. I needed to go. I didn’t know how badly.
Still, one thing or another never felt right and my initial peace over a longed for retreat with the staff and writers from The High Calling morphed into a battle with doubt and fear. I didn’t want to leave my family. I was afraid to fly. Every reason topped the other. I didn’t want to go if God wasn’t going with me.
When my husband dropped me off at the airport I crumpled in his arms as the stress of going turned to tears. Our goodbye hug/ prayer sent me safely, peacefully to the Texas hills. I knew god would hold me. If I didn’t know it then I received my last flight confirmation from a security guard who sang No Weapon by Fred Hammond, (out loud and loud ) while checking passengers in.
A miracle got me on the plane and a miracle met me in the canyon. My first conversations with Amy Brietmann and Tammy Hendricksmeyer involved talk of unicorns. I knew we’d hit it off. I believe in miracles. I needed friends to believe with me.
I got quiet. The combination of spiritual retreat and physical rest scratched dreams and ideas loose from a mind cluttered with content. To do lists, responsibilities, relationships….content. Only on the ride home did I fully recognize how much had been poured into me. Time spent with such inspiring people left me with lots to process. Those conversations helped me claim the dreams I’ve held tight. From others, from myself. To let some things go.
I had coffee in a rocking chair overlooking the Frio River and took a magical walk with friends up, around and through brambles and pathways marked by the memory and stories of those that walked before. I stopped. I looked. I listened. Each day the canyon seemed to open wider to accommodate anything I might offer. I experienced the drive through the river and the Threshold tower designed by Roger Feldman. Walking toward it broke the last pieces of my city girl soul. Preceded by a pathway of brittle, crumbling rocks, the tower stands alone in a clearing calling out for restoration. The tower is the epitome of decency and order with every stones placement having been precisely calculated in derivatives of 3. It’s a Trinitarian beacon of hope and place for deliberate respite. I walked in and took a seat.
And the bookstore. I’m not sure what it is about the bookstore but the first time I went in I collapsed in a pool of tears while fingering through a copy of Madeleine l’Engle’s “Walking on Water“. Where they came from was a mystery. I wasn’t feeling sad, or tired. I’d been at the lodge a few hours and I guess the fragrance of god and a lone empty chair in the corner offered the permission I needed to breakdown. A wave of cleansing tears washed over me and marked the beginning of the soul excavation that took place in the canyon.
The staff at the High Calling is perfectly matched for this magical place. Taking seriously the sacred work of hospitality they met every need. From delicious, lovingly prepared food to the open palm feeling of a bed calling me to nap in the middle of the day… I felt cared for.
Prayer is our souls language…for connection and communication to our creator. It makes sense our souls know it well. And prayer is the language of Laity Lodge. Only God could crack open a space on earth to hold the hearts of such weary souls. For refreshment, for peace. Laity lodge is a place for quiet, for healing.
I had to report for jury duty the morning I returned home. And the world seemed to crumble under the burden of systematic injustice in the days that followed. It was hard to hold onto the unicorn and the billion stars I thought I could touch one night in the canyon. So the devil did everything he could to make me think Laity Lodge was a dream – fantasy conjured up from a clearly delusional Jesus freak.
But faith is part fantasy. I can’t make you hear the messages I received from the saints that knew I’d come…I can’t make you hear the voice of God crying out from a canyon. I can tell you it happened and you’d have to believe me.
I’m holding onto the unicorn. I saw a unicorn at Laity Lodge. I did.
Were you there? Leave a link to a post you wrote about your experience. Have you ever wanted to go? I think you should. Do you believe in unicorns?
Let your handmaiden find grace in your sight…#GiveMeGrace
Something strange darkened my doorway this year. It cast a shadow I couldn’t erase. I’ve felt spiritually quarantined. Lost. Sequestered in silence, waiting for the cool drink of water that is redemption. Like the enslaved Israelites I long for a savior. I long for the hope found in an anointed savior who promises to make it all right. I have hope.
I’m waiting for my faith to catch up with everything I believe, for my heart to accept the things I already know. Yet even as my spirit aches, labors long with this soul-remembered promise I feel it. It’s expressed in my faith as I continue to search for God…even when I grow weary from believing.
I have hope. It’s birthed in the secret spaces of the heart. Chambers once soldered shut…opened. Once cauterised vessels now release streams of life-giving blood. The levees broke, the water rose. Into the chaos and clutter of a world struggling with the sin of systematic injustice, a baby was born.
Yes, we’ve been here before.
Whatever has happened, will happen again; whatever has been done, will be done again. There is nothing new on earth. – Ecclesiastes 1:9
Today God’s using one of the least encouraging scriptures to set my heart right. He’s shifting the atmosphere, rearranging the floor plan of my stubborn faith.
The Israelites got Moses and in the middle of the story a baby was born.
Focusing on what He’s done and what He promises to do keeps me grounded. From my view, the birth of a baby provides enough hope for me to stay the course. If there’s ever been a reason to believe anything in this world its new life.
In the day-to-day it means He’ll see me through this thing called marriage, help me raise my kids…do the laundry, plan the party, strategize the next big event at work, provide manna in the form of new ideas when I feel stuck. He’ll be the judge and high priest for every evil that ails this earth.
God will do what He said He’d do.
I have hope.
Let your handmaiden find grace in your sight…#GiveMeGrace
Its 3:22 p.m on Monday, November 17th. I live New York City but my mind, my mind is in Ferguson. All day, several times today I’ve scrolled through my news feed waiting for the news. So far…nothing. But the National Guard is on alert and local and nationwide people are preparing for the grand jury’s verdict.
I’m trying to not make Ferguson about me. But it is. #BlackLivesMatter
Since Last Thursday I’ve sat with the feelings behind this post. Chewed the cud like a cow on what I would say if asked. What I would say when the decision comes down. How I’ll tell my teen-aged son that another unarmed black man was shot and killed and no one will go to jail for it. The precedent set says it’s not a crime to kill unarmed black men. Or maybe it is, but try it, you’ll probably get away with it. A lot about this world scares me.
I’m trying not to make Ferguson about me but it is.
So I can’t write the Jesus is love, let’s move on in prayer post. Although that is what I will do. My faith is built on Christ’s finished works on the cross. And grace. Anything going on or not going on is no surprise to Him. Not even this post. But there is room, even grace for my holy righteous anger. Christians can be angry too.
So I’ll write what drums out of my heart. Blow fresh wind on a dream deferred. Beat the hope I need out of a drum. I’ll cry and teach my children to love. I’ll pray.
♥♥♥
I closed the screen last night, the bright white light from my iPad having finally won the battle with my eyes. I took off my glasses, resting my face between my palms. I remembered a feeling I had on the train the other day.
I took a ride on an iron horse in the belly of the beast. The New York City subway to be exact. It’s chauffeured me around the city all my life. From dance class to museum, to school. Uptown, down town, across town but always, always home. Not today. Today it feels like the Amistad.
I found myself and my girls 3 of only 4 people of color on a crowded train in Harlem headed downtown. Gentrification will do that. We hopped on, the doors closed and suddenly, my soul remembered.
His name was Bongo, a percussion specialist and teacher for the Board of Education. In his free time he gave impromptu performances/ history lessons in drum culture. He played and talked and sang a percussive, persuasive beat. A melody drilled in my core since the beginning of time. I couldn’t be still. I can’t. The drums are calling.
The rhythm took over and I imagined the power of the drums. The power of a form of communication…for celebration, mourning and warning. Bongo told us about the silencing of the drum. And I remember the most effective way to vaporize a whole culture is to deny their customs and culture. Their music, their stories.
It begins with a little toe tapping and hip swaying. My chest is ready to pop but first contract…ahhh release. I heard the rhythm in my head and my body saluted the drum. An involuntary salutation of movement and prayer. I give in. It’s visceral, tangible and my daughter looks at my face as she catches a glimpse of the drum in my eyes. She knows I’m dancing.
I’m doing a centuries old dance where I move like a mother who wonders what will become of her daughters, a woman who may have lost her husband….forever. I’m thinking like a woman trying to hold her family together and a woman who’s afraid for her life. How much? How much? What is the price for a human life? How much am I worth? my daughters…my sons? Will this ever change?
The doors open and close as we make our way downtown. I’m spent. My movements were a mournful lamentation and offering – a cry. But a song won’t come.
It’s a difficult subject with no easy answers. Many don’t see the church as part of a movement towards social justice. I do. I’m a daughter born of the peaceful sit-in…but also the riot. I’ll turn the other cheek…only so many times. I bet that’s true of you too. And I’ll be honest I struggle because we live in a country that fought itself to wipe out the vile business of slavery. How do you live the love of the Bible with the side that lost?
I’ve said before fight or flight is real and it’s human. Most men will move to defend themselves when threatened. Women too. That’s what’s suggested of the officer. He shot in defense. But what of Mike? For men of color being pulled over by a police officer is often a life-threatening situation. They grow up knowing this. I can’t say Mike Brown was an innocent man. I can say he was unarmed. And shot 6 times. I can say I don’t believe he deserved to die.
For there they that carried us away captive required of us a song; and they that wasted us required of us mirth, saying, Sing us one of the songs of Zion. – Psalm 137:3
I will not sing. But I won’t be silent. My weeping has turned to rage. It’s gnashing of teeth and holy hot fire streaming down my face. They’d rather I sing . Sing while they dishonor black life, sing…while they trample human dignity. They ask for a song. I will not sing.
So no more words. Let’s pretend all the differences and drama are done. Today I will not sing… I’ll beat the drum.
This is the rhythm from rivers of blood poured for peace, for justice, for freedom. It’s holy and sanctimonious. Its sunshine and rain, blazing and bloody. It’s loud and it won’t be stopped. And I don’t want this feeling to leave me…this rhythm to disappear like the rainbow I saw last week. It’s fuel and fire. It’s life and longing and hope and tears. It’s my heartbeat. And yours. This is the drum.
Play with me, pray with me now on the djembe, the bada, the conga and the bongo. Batta bop, bop, bata, bop, bop…. Mike…Brown….Batta bop,bop,bata, bop, bop Mike …Brown
I’m trying not to make Ferguson about me
but it is.
I’m trying not to make Ferguson about me
but it is.
Ferguson is about me.
Perhaps Ferguson is about you too.
